


these inconvenient fireworks

by spacejame



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 03:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17014497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejame/pseuds/spacejame
Summary: Four times Steve and Tony didn’t call each other by name, and one time they did.





	these inconvenient fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this back in april, and i’ve finally decided to post it as i’ve gotten back into the marvel fandom. many thanks to whenasinsilks to betareading it for me, and many apologies to not getting back to her about it. <3
> 
> (title is from "stray italian greyhound" by vienna teng)

**V.**

When Tony Stark calls him “Captain”, off the field, it’s not a show of respect. At least when everyone else does it, Steve knows, they mean well, and that makes it bearable, even if it does still prick at him. At least when SHIELD officials or civilians or _anybody else_ uses the title, Steve can at least pretend it doesn’t make him feel the way it does—hot and prickly, almost, skin feeling stretched taut over his bones, uncomfortable and ill-fitting. (He wonders if he should feel so trapped by his alter ego, as he sometimes does; there are days when the shield is unbearably heavy, as though he is unworthy to bear its weight, and that tight feeling of wrongness gives the impression that the identity of Captain America is too big to fit inside Steve Rogers.) At least nobody knows how much he genuinely dislikes it at times.

Stark, though…

A stab of irritation hits him, and Steve’s jaw clenches reflexively, the reaction practically muscle memory by now whenever Stark enters a room or invades his thoughts. Stark’s mere presence has the unique ability to rub Steve the wrong way, to have him gearing up for a fight. Because Stark? Stark pushes all of his buttons, he pokes and nags and does everything he can to find what will make Steve break. And when he calls him “Captain”, it’s not out of respect. It’s nothing short of _mocking._

Speak of the devil—Stark breezes into the otherwise-empty kitchen, and right on cue, Steve’s fingers twitch where they’re curled loosely around his coffee mug. It’s _five forty-five a.m._ on a _Sunday,_ for goodness’ sake. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stark up this early before.

And yet, there he is, like Steve’s very own personal demon, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans as he stands in front of the industrial-grade coffee machine and glares at it like it’s personally offended him. “Why haven’t I upgraded this thing to brew coffee faster yet?” he complains to no one in particular, the hint of a whine in his voice as he shoves a mug under the drip and jabs one of the buttons impatiently.

Steve downs the rest of his coffee and heads for the sink, frowning as he rinses out his cup. “Mornin’, Stark,” he says carefully. He’s treading on thin ice, here, and it won’t do to break it. “You’re up early.”

Stark turns as though he’s only just noticed Steve—and maybe he has. For a split second, perfect surprise is written in every line of his face, but Steve doesn’t have a chance to examine it properly before Stark’s expression hardens and cools, carefully arranged into indifference.

“Captain,” he says offhandedly, pleasant but with just a little too much teeth, and Steve’s stomach clenches. “S’that a problem?”

Pursing his lips, Steve just glares at him, turning his damp mug in his hands. “Stark,” he says tiredly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes or massage his temples. “This is your house. You can go wherever you want.”

“So it _is_ a problem,” Stark says.

“That’s not what I—”

“Don’t bother. I can tell.” Stark’s lips curl. It’s not quite a smile and not quite a sneer, but something in between that only Tony Stark could manage. The skin under his eyes is dark, almost bruise-black, and a little swollen. Steve might almost think he had two black eyes if he didn’t know so well what complete and utter weariness looks like.

That tiny detail, the physical evidence of Stark’s exhaustion, is captivating. It’s… humanizing, in a way, making Stark seem almost smaller than usual. Steve’s only half-aware that he’s outright _staring_ now, never mind the fact that Stark’s grimace is slowly fading into a vaguely uncomfortable scowl. Because now that he’s noticed the dark circles under Stark’s dark, cognac eyes, he can’t help but notice other things, too, like how incredibly long his eyelashes are, and the smattering of barely-there freckles on his nose, and how has he never seen these things before?

The coffee machine beeps, obnoxiously loud in the stifling quiet that’s fallen over the kitchen, and the moment cracks like glass under pressure. Steve blinks, frowning, and oh. They’re standing awfully close, aren’t they? He takes a small step back to alleviate some of the tension.

Tony is still frowning, although he looks more bewildered than anything else. He grabs his coffee mug, knuckles white as he grips the handle tightly. “Permission to be dismissed, Captain?” he says, a spark of defiance in his eyes, daring Steve to retaliate.

His voice is trembling slightly.

A twinge of anger—not irritation this time, but real anger, tinged with something else that’s even more infuriating than usual—brings a hot flush to the back of Steve’s neck. And normally he doesn’t take the bait when Stark goads him, normally he restrains himself, but he’s so off-balance and so frustrated that this time, he bites.

“Permission granted, Mr. Stark,” he snaps.

The effect this has on his teammate is immediate. Tony’s expression shutters, his face going curiously blank. His grip on his cup slackens, but his shoulders go rigid, his eyes darting away from Steve’s face and fixing on a point just past his shoulder. “Sir, yes, sir,” he says, flatly, and marches past Steve without another word.

All the tension bleeds out of Steve as he watches him go, and he’s left feeling unsatisfied and— _disappointed,_ he realizes in a rush, that’s what that feeling had been. A wave of fatigue and something not unlike longing washes over him, and he leans his hip against the counter with a bone-deep sigh, glancing over at the coffee machine, then down at the cup in his hand. He lets his fingertips lightly trail across the chrome surface of the machine, across the button Stark had pressed, but he rarely indulges himself and neither Tony nor coffee should be cause for exception.

Still, he thinks wistfully, and pictures Tony’s dark eyes again, it doesn’t hurt to look.

* * *

**IV.**

Sometimes, Tony’s convinced he might be some sort of sadist. Normally, he doesn’t find pleasure in other people’s pain; far from it, actually. But most days, he genuinely enjoys coming up with different ways to piss off Steve Rogers, even has a little tally going in his mind of just how many times he can get Rogers to glare at him, eyes like chips of ice, the tips of his ears flushed red, his jaw visibly clenched. It’s like, by getting America’s Golden Boy to lose his temper, he’s accomplishing something. Like he’s contributing to the downfall of that perfect image. And it’s a nice payback for all the times Rogers makes _him_ seething mad.

He just can’t help it, can’t leave it damn well alone. He wants to push and pull and tear at Rogers until he snaps.

But if Tony’s a sadist, he’s also apparently got a masochistic streak in there somewhere, because when he and the good Captain fight, it _hurts._ It’s painful in a raw, aching sort of way, because somehow, Rogers manages to cut through the layers he’s built up with words sharp enough to leave him breathless.

He really doesn’t want to think too hard about why.

_You know, you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero._

Sure, it’s been weeks since the Battle of New York, since everything happened on the Helicarrier and the mess with Loki got cleaned up, but if Tony Stark knows how to do one thing, it’s hold a grudge. He can hardly stomach living in the same _tower_ as Cap, never mind working on the same team as him or even so much as being in the same room. Nine times out of ten, it ends in bickering, in Tony posturing and snarking, in Steve annoyed and flushed pink. And Tony knows what to say to get under his skin. He can engineer his verbal jabs with the same precision as his tech, designed to be flippant enough to come across as bad jokes but at the same time meant to hurt. It’s another thing he’s good at, apparently.

But there are rare occasions that Steve wins their verbal sparring matches. The worst offender is one morning in the kitchen. He hasn’t slept in two days, easy, and is pushing three when he finally emerges from his workshop in search of more coffee. As he climbs the stairs, he reasons that it’s early enough in the morning that everyone else is still asleep, or they’ve already cleared out, but as luck would have it, Captain fucking America himself is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee out of a black-and-white patterned mug. Tony makes a valiant effort to ignore him, but it’s no use.

They get into it, practically nose-to-nose as they so often are when Tony provokes him, and then Cap just… goes silent. He’s still glaring, sort of, but the lines on his forehead smooth out, eyes softening and roaming over his face with a disconcerting intensity. Tony’s stomach twists, fluttering in a way that, while not exactly unpleasant, is entirely unwelcome. He’s not one to back down from a fight, but for some reason in that moment he wants nothing more than to run away, to escape from the weight of those blue, blue eyes that seem to pin him in place. The worst part, he thinks, his heart beating double-time against the arc reactor in his chest, the worst part is that Rogers doesn’t seem angry anymore; instead, Tony has the intense and invasive feeling of being truly seen.

And it scares the shit out of him.

Tony lashes out— “Permission to be dismissed, Captain?” —but he’s not expecting the way Cap’s face falls. Hurt, disappointment, regret—all flicker across his face in the briefest of seconds, before his brow furrows again. And anger Tony can deal with, anger and irritation and frustration are the things he expects from the captain, the things he knows. Rogers being angry is familiar to him. Or so he thinks.

The universe is full of surprises, apparently, because the Captain barks at him, “Permission granted, Mr. Stark.”

And Tony’s chest goes all weird and tight, and it’s hard to breathe, suddenly. _Oh,_ he thinks dizzily, _oh._ “Sir, yes, sir,” he mumbles and promptly heads down to the workshop to sit against the wall and sip his coffee until he doesn’t feel like throwing up or crying anymore. Turning it over in his mind, later, he’s still not sure what to make of it.

Things are tense after that, to put it mildly. The next time they see each other, Tony decides to run an experiment. He puts extra effort into annoying the super-soldier—gets in his space, teases him, makes fun of him, the whole nine yards—but never once does he call him Captain. He calls him plenty of other things, of course; “Cap” is a favorite of his, along with “Capsicle”, “Stars and Spangles”, and once, memorably, “Francis Scott Key”. Actually, he’s sort of proud of that last one, especially since Cap seems to _understand_ the joke for once—and Tony would swear up and down that he saw the beginnings of a smirk twitching the corner of Rogers’ lip at that one.

It appears to do the trick. Cap gets annoyed, sure, the Frown of Disapproval (Tony wants to get that term trademarked) settling over his face, but he doesn’t seem genuinely angry like he had that morning. And he doesn’t call Tony “Mr. Stark” again. Tony counts it as a win for the good guys.

Whatever it may be Tony is planning to ignore the Kitchen Incident and never speak of it again. About two weeks pass in that manner, normal enough to fool the other Avengers into thinking nothing’s changed, but with that tenuous thread of _something_ between them that they each refuse to acknowledge or discuss. It’s possible that it’s just Tony still thinking about it, but he doubts that’s the case.

Because every time they’re in the same room together, Tony feels those blue eyes lock on him with unfailing accuracy. It’s intense, distracting, and borderline uncomfortable, being the focus of so much single-minded attention. He’s even more on edge and twitchy than normal, because every time he and Rogers make eye contact—hell, every time he feels that gaze on him—a flush burns the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, a hot, shivery feeling that twists down his spine and through the pit of his stomach. He can’t decide if he likes it or not, but one thing is certain.

He literally cannot stop thinking about it.

Take now, for example. Even doing mundane repairs on the Mark VIII at half past two in the morning, something that should be easy for him to get lost in, Tony can’t settle into his work headspace. He almost burns his hand because he can’t stop remembering the way Rogers had looked at him, little flashes of blue eyes roaming over Tony’s face, taking in every detail—

Tony slams his soldering iron down on the workshop table, spooking DUM-E, but he’s too frustrated to do much more than mumble a quick apology. “JARVIS,” he barks, running oil-smudged fingers through his equally greasy hair. “Give me Cap’s location, please.”

 _“Captain Rogers is currently in the gym, sir.”_ The AI pauses, but doesn’t say anything else. There’s an edge of… _worry_ , almost, in his tone, that makes Tony sit up straighter.

“Is he all right?”

JARVIS is silent for another moment, which is concerning all on its own. _“Captain Rogers has been training for approximately three hours and twenty-seven minutes. In that time, he appears to have broken five punching bags and is well on his way to a sixth.”_

Tony splutters for a second. “ _F_ _ive?_ Jesus—” Before he even fully realizes what he’s doing, he’s scrambling for the elevator, punching in the number of the training floor. He fidgets on his way up, playing with the hem of his tank top, almost bouncing on his heels impatiently. What the hell does Rogers think he’s doing?

The elevator doors are barely open before Tony is striding out, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. Cap’s the only one on the floor, it seems; the slightly muffled sound of his blows falling unerringly on the bag echoes around the empty room, a steady rhythm that covers the sound of Tony’s light footsteps as he approaches.

“You want to stop killing my punching bags, Cap? Not that they’re hard to replace—or that anyone other than you uses them, really—but it’s the principle of the thing.”

The chain holding the bag in place on the ceiling snaps, and a last sharp blow sends it flying across the room and slamming into the wall. Sand sprays from a tear in the bag, and Tony stops short, eyes widening. _Okay, holy shit. Super-soldier. Right._

Rogers turns to face him. His skin shines with a faint sheen of sweat, his greyish-white T-shirt sticking to his chest and his blond hair messy over his forehead. There’s a kind of flat, weary resignation on his face, the kind of tiredness that goes beyond physical, and his mouth flattens into a wary line when he sees Tony.

“Stark,” he says, breathless.

“Evening, Cap,” Tony says. “Can’t sleep?”

It strikes Tony all at once how tired Rogers looks—how _young_ and yet immeasurably old his countenance is, open and vulnerable and worn down to the bone. He fiddles with the red-stained wrapping around his knuckles, breaking Tony’s gaze, and shakes his head silently. Something is obviously wrong.

Tony takes a small step closer. “Cap,” he repeats, softer, and bites his lip. “Are you okay?”

A pause, in which Tony’s mind whirls, running through scenarios and possible outcomes, potential responses to that question swirling in a mad jumble of images. Then Steve shakes his head again, and his fingers ball into fists, and his face crumples.

“Oh, geez—” Tony doesn’t hesitate, just reaches for him, but he doesn’t quite make it before Rogers is sinking to his knees, his shoulders slumping. Tony ends up with Rogers’ arm sort of around his waist and the other across his chest, hand bracing against Tony’s shoulder, kneeling beside Rogers as the man shakes.

He feels woefully unqualified to deal with this situation. A crying, exhausted super-soldier in his arms is an unknown variable. Not knowing what else to do, Tony rubs his back gently, making soothing circles over the cotton fabric of his T-shirt.

Rogers leans his head on Tony’s shoulder, face against Tony’s neck. His hands are still in his lap, knuckles white under the loosened wrapping as he clenches his fists. Tony has the overwhelming, irrational urge to kiss his forehead and protect him, which is laughable at best. Captain America doesn’t need protecting.

Except maybe he does, Tony thinks, feeling those broad shoulders tremble under his hands.

“Rogers?” he says gently, and Steve lifts his head, exhaling slowly. His eyes are red, the blue of his irises unusually bright, and he doesn’t meet Tony’s gaze. Tony’s heart clenches. “Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

A nod, and Steve starts to pull away. Tony scrambles to his feet, wincing at the twinge in his knees, and offers his hand. Steve just looks at it for a second, as though he doesn’t quite process why it’s there, before understanding flickers across his face and he reaches up to take it. Tony is ninety-nine percent sure that he isn’t actually helping so much as letting Steve pull himself up using Tony as leverage, but he’s on his feet, and that’s what matters.

Tony’s arm fits around Steve’s waist like it was meant to go there, and wow, that is definitely _not_ something he wants to think about right now. In return, Steve drapes his arm over Tony’s shoulders carefully, and the implication of trust in the action sends a pleased little flutter of warmth through Tony’s gut.

Steve lets Tony help him into the elevator, silence heavy over their heads as it goes up, and they make it as far as Steve’s hallway before they stop. “I think I’m good from here,” Steve says, voice hoarse and quiet. It’s the first time he’s spoken since greeting Tony in the gym, what feels like hours ago.

“You sure?” Tony frowns, letting go of Steve more reluctantly than he cares to admit.

“I’m sure. Thanks.” Steve rewards him with a tired, hesitant smile, and Tony’s traitorous heart twists in his chest.

He steps back, bobbing his head awkwardly. “Right. Good. Um, make sure you drink some water before you go to sleep,” Tony babbles. “And wash your knuckles. You may have super-healing, but I’m sure you don’t like scrubbing dried blood off your skin any more than the rest of us.”

Steve’s smile grows a little, and there’s the hint of a laugh in his voice when he says, “I will.”

Tony rocks back on his heels, bites his lip and wishes he had something better to say. “G’night, Cap,” he says, and tries to pretend that _Steve_ isn’t what almost slipped through his lips instead.

“Goodnight, Stark.” Steve’s lips are still curled slightly upward when he opens the door and ducks into his room. Tony waits until the door has clicked shut before releasing the air trapped in his lungs, turning on his heel and heading back down to the workshop. ****

* * *

**III.**

Steve has a problem. And his problem comes in the form of a handsome, sharp-tongued billionaire superhero by the name of Tony Stark.

It’s not a new problem by any means. The thing is, though, _before,_ Steve’s Tony problem was… if not manageable, at least _understandable._  Tony’s impulsiveness, his disrespect, his disregard for others, and his seemingly absolute lack of capability to follow to orders—those were all aggravating, but they were things that could be dealt with. Now, though, following first that morning in the kitchen and then the night when Tony had found him in the gym… now, Steve’s problem has taken on an entirely new shape.

Now, Steve has noticed Tony. And once he starts noticing him, he can’t stop.

He notices random, tiny little physical details, like the little curl at the nape of his neck and the small scars that litter the backs of his hands. He notices the way Tony’s tongue pokes between his lips when he concentrates and the way his clever fingers tap out complex rhythms and trace random patterns on tabletops. He notices Tony’s smile, his real one, rare and fleeting but brilliant when it does appear, and he notices Tony’s habit of avoiding reflective surfaces and of concealing the light of his arc reactor beneath layers of clothing.

It’s very, very distracting.

Steve draws all of his teammates pretty regularly—the curve of Natasha’s smile when she laughs, the drape of Thor’s unbound hair tumbling over his shoulders, Bruce squinting through his glasses, Clint’s head and shoulders poking out of a vent—but lately, Tony has insinuated himself into Steve’s artwork more and more often, finding a starring role there. He fills several pages with disjointed sketches of Tony, of his hands manipulating light in the workshop, of the angle of his jaw and the well-groomed lines of his goatee, of the messy shock of his hair right after he runs his hands through it. Sometimes, when he wants to stop thinking and just puts pencil to paper, when he lets the lines of graphite create and bring form to anything and everything in the recesses of his mind—sometimes he draws Tony in a way that feels a little more personal.

He sketches Tony shirtless, arc reactor blazing like a star from his chest, bright light bringing his face into stark contrast. Carefully, with the utmost precision, he pencils in Tony’s dark eyes, framed by those impossibly long lashes, underscored by deep crescents. The chiaroscuro on his face, lit from beneath, is a fascinating subject. He wants to paint it, sometime. Really, what he wants is for Tony to model for him, but he’s too afraid to ask.

There is, however, something he can do. Steve brings his sketchbook and pencils down to Tony’s lab on another of those sleepless nights when everything feels out of place and he needs to escape his head. He’s restless, fidgeting, his stomach fluttering with out-of-control nerves as he takes the elevator down. _What’s the worst he can do,_ he tries to reason with himself, _say no?_

Yes. Yes, that is the worst he could do. Steve is utterly dreading that potential outcome.

JARVIS lets him into the workshop, and Tony must not be too deep in his work yet, because he actually looks up when Steve enters. “Cap,” he acknowledges, sounding cautiously pleased. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing much,” Steve says, and brandishes his sketchbook and art supplies. “Actually, I was hoping you’d let me sit down here and draw for a bit.”

Tony blinks owlishly at him, lips parting in surprise, and it’s comical and a little bit adorable. To his credit, he recovers quickly, if a bit gracelessly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Sure thing. Knock yourself out.” He turns back to his work, though Steve notices the way his gaze lingers a little.

“Thanks.” Steve smiles softly, and crosses to the beat-up red couch that slumps against the wall of the workshop. From this angle, he sees Tony in profile, and quickly gives into the temptation to warm up by sketching him. It’s more of a suggestion of outlines than anything else, a few lines doing the job of depicting the slope of Tony’s nose, the shadow of his facial hair across his jaw, the column of his throat and the way the muscles bunch in his wiry arms.

But Tony’s not his main subject. Not tonight, anyway.

Steve’s attention shifts across the room, to where the Iron Man suits are on display. He flips to a clean page and pauses for a moment, resting the tip of his pencil lightly against the pristine white paper as he debates on how to begin. Slowly, he draws the curve of the top of the helmet, brow furrowing as he concentrates, world narrowing to the simple _scritch_ of his pencil on the paper and the smooth, clean lines of the armor.

With an artist’s eye, picking out details as he renders them in bold, delicate lines, Steve can truly appreciate the beauty of the suit, the genius of its creator evident in its design. It isn’t as though Steve hasn’t noticed before—of _course_ he’s noticed, no one could deny that the Iron Man suit is utterly gorgeous—but studying it, drawing it, makes it awe-inspiring. Still, something’s missing, something frustrating that he can’t quite put his finger on.

As he shades the armor with soft, light strokes, it hits him that what he’s trying to capture is the personality that Tony always lends to the suit. Without the man inside, the machinery is beautiful, but dark and lifeless. Steve doesn’t think he’s gotten everything quite right, but for his first time drawing it, he thinks he did a decent job.

More than once while Steve is working on his drawing—he thinks an hour passes, maybe two, but he tends to lose track of time when he’s focused on something like this—he catches Tony sneaking curious glances at him out of the corner of his eye. The mechanic seems baffled by Steve’s presence to the point of distraction, and Steve tries not to smile.

Eventually, he sets aside his sketchbook, rising and rolling his head from side to side to feel his neck pop. Tony looks up from his holograms, pausing with his hand inside what looks like a projected model of one of the Iron Man gauntlets. He waves his hand to make it disappear, turning fully to face Steve and leaning against the table. “You headed out, Rogers?” he asks, oddly hesitant.

The way his lips form Steve’s last name feels— _intimate_ is the only word that comes to mind, and Steve feels warm all over. “Time for me to hit the sack,” he says gently, taking a step closer. “Maybe you should follow my example.”

Tony’s mouth flattens into a line. “Following’s not really my style,” he says, but there’s no bite to the familiar words.

Steve gives him a long look. “No,” he agrees eventually, voice calm. “It’s not.” Tony isn’t one to follow easily, and that used to aggravate him to no end. It often still does, but now, he’s growing used to it, learning to work with it—with _him._  Tony’s personality is larger than life, all energy and brilliance and arrogant, sarcastic wit packed into a surprisingly compact frame with a glowing heart and big, expressive eyes. Everything he does is in present tense; he demands attention and holds the world in the palm of his hand so easily. Tony never seems uncomfortable in the spotlight—in fact, he always seems to revel in it, commanding everyone to _look._ Right now, though, he’s the antithesis of all of that, subdued and vulnerable and bravely holding Steve’s gaze even as he looks for all the world like he wants to run away.

Steve sort of really wants to kiss him.

The thought strikes him with startling intensity like a blow directly to his solar plexus, but he doesn’t react outwardly aside from a half-blink. There will be time to panic about this revelation later, he tells himself.

“Here,” he says, and opens his sketchbook. He carefully shields it as he leafs through the pages, and Tony has the decency to not try and look. When Steve flips to the most recent page, the one with the drawing of Iron Man, he carefully tears it out and hands it to Tony. “I want you to have this.”

Tony stares down at it, uncharacteristically silent.

“It’s not perfect,” Steve admits, with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Couldn’t get it quite right without you in the suit. You give it life.”

Color blooms across Tony’s cheeks, and he looks up at Steve, something desperately raw in his expression. “Rogers—”

“Thank you. For the other night,” Steve says quietly. “You’re a good man, Tony Stark.”

With that, he smiles at Tony one last time before slipping out of the workshop, leaving the other man speechless and blushing and clinging to the drawing with slightly trembling fingers.

* * *

**II.**

_“Iron Man, on your six!”_

Tony whips around at the sound of Steve’s voice in his ear, shooting a blast from his palm repulsor at the giant wasp—giant _wasps,_ fucking _seriously?_ —that had managed to sneak up on him. It falls with a shriek, and Tony mimes wiping sweat from his brow. “Target eliminated, obliterated, et cetera. Thanks, Cap.”

A grunt of acknowledgement is the only response Tony gets, but Cap’s currently holding his own against three of the overgrown wasps below him, so Tony won’t hold it against him. In fact—

“Need a hand, Captain?” Tony calls out, twisting into a graceful dive with hands outstretched and firing double blasts at a wasp that’s seconds away from impaling Steve on its four-foot-long stinger. Together, they take out the giant insects, a flawless dance of combat, Tony’s flares of light and Steve’s perfectly timed blows from his shield coming back-to-back until the wasps are nothing but mangled shells on the ground.

Steve shoots Tony a quick grin, his eyes bright. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

 _“I need backup!”_ Clint snaps over the comms.

Adjusting his grip on the shield, Steve nods and puts a hand up to his ear. “On it, Hawkeye,” he says, then glances at Tony, smile lessening to a simple quirk of his lips. “Mind giving me a lift, Shellhead?”

Tony is glad, suddenly, for the full-coverage faceplate of his suit, because it means Steve can’t see the way Tony’s face has gone hot-rod red at both the question and the nickname. _Christ._ “Sure thing—” His eyes catch on the wings embellished on the sides of Steve’s cowl— “Winghead.”

This startles a laugh out of Steve, who looks simultaneously exasperated and delighted. “Stark…”

 _“If you two are done flirting on the public channel, I’d really appreciate that backup right around now,”_ Clint interrupts dryly. He sounds strained, but he’s clearly alive enough to snark at them, so Tony isn’t too concerned.

Actually, he’s more pissed than anything. If they weren’t in the middle of a firefight, Tony would probably kick Clint’s ass for that comment. He still might, once they’re out of this mess. Best to table that thought for later.

Steve steps closer to him, snapping Tony out of his thoughts. “Shall we?” he says, and his mouth is serious now, but his blue eyes still smile at Tony.

Iron Man locks his arm securely around Captain America’s waist. “Ready when you are, O Captain, my Captain,” he says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound quite so affectionate, but the plain warmth in his voice is audible even through the vocal modulator.

“Prepared for takeoff, Iron Man.” Steve wraps his arm around Tony, stabilizing himself.

That’s when everything starts to go downhill.

It takes them a moment to get their balance—Tony has only lifted Steve like this a handful of times—and by the time he drops Steve at Clint’s location, they’re almost too late. Right as Tony lands, Clint gets stung and goes down, and from there it’s a mad rush to get him back to the quinjet for medical treatment while trying to keep from getting hit themselves. Tony gets beat around a little, but nothing actually punctures the armor.

The incident leaves the Avengers as a whole a little stunned, though; it’s been months since they last suffered any serious casualties on the team. They finish up the mission in uncharacteristic silence aside from Steve’s barked orders. The captain’s face is grim all through the debrief, and he doesn’t look at Tony once.

Really, he can take a hint.

Back in his workshop, Tony’s fixing up his own comparatively minor wounds—slapping a bandage over the cut on the bridge of his nose and wrapping his bruised ribs is nothing when he thinks about what Clint must be going through.

It’s Tony’s goddamn fault for not being prepared. For getting _distracted_ by his stupid crush. He scowls and tugs the wrapping around his torso a little tighter than he needs to.

SHIELD medical has, somehow, managed to send him pain pills, the bottle of which is currently sitting innocuously on Tony’s desk. Steve’s doing, no doubt. Tony glares at the bottle, but pops two pills anyway, swallows them dry and then reaches for his tumbler of whiskey to wash them down.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Tony yelps, nearly dropping the bottle as he whirls around. In his defense, he’s still jumpy from the battle, hopped up on adrenaline, and Steve’s voice has the capacity to set his heart racing even on a normal day. “Christ on a bike, Rogers. What the hell are you doing down here?”

Steve looks unimpressed. “You shouldn’t mix alcohol and prescription medication,” he says sternly, moving forward and gently taking the tumbler from Tony’s hand. He frowns down at it, then sets it aside—out of Tony’s reach—and crosses his arms over his chest. The disapproving look that Tony has been getting less and less lately is back, but even now it’s tinged with something else, something suspiciously like real concern.

He isn’t quite sure what to do with that.

“Well, you’re not the boss of me. Not off the field, anyway,” Tony says.

“Seems like I’m not always the boss of you on the field, either.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’ve been doing better! I did everything you asked of me today, didn’t I? Oh, but something _still_ went wrong, would you look at that,” he points out irritably, going to step around him. “Look, I really don’t have the patience for this right now, so if you’ll excuse me—”

A large hand closes around his bicep, and Tony goes very still. “Stark,” Steve says quietly. “Look at me.”

 _Fuck._ Tony’s gaze skitters across Steve’s face, darting away once, twice, before finally settling on a spot just below Steve’s left eye. “Will you let go of me, please?” he mutters through gritted teeth.

Steve doesn’t. His hand is warm on Tony’s bare arm, thumb sweeping along the curve of his shoulder. The lab isn’t cold, but Tony shivers anyway, feeling far too exposed in his worn tank top and jeans, especially compared to Steve, who’s still in uniform sans the gloves and cowl. The super-soldier has that infuriating look on his face, studying Tony intently, like he can see right through him.

“Stop feeling guilty,” he says, and Tony starts. “It wasn’t your fault. And I’ve been to see Clint. He’s stable and already recovering. Do you hear me? He’s _fine,_ Shellhead.”

Tony exhales slowly, those simple words making some of the tension leave his body. He nods and presses his lips together, his chin dropping. “How did you…?”

“You think I don’t blame myself, too?” Steve says. Tony looks up at him, brow furrowing, but when he opens his mouth, Steve silences him with a gentle squeeze to his arm. “Every time one of my teammates gets hurt, I feel responsible. I’m the captain—Christ, I’m _Captain America._ I should be able to protect my team. Even the tiniest scrapes, I feel guilty for.”

Steve’s free hand comes up, his palm cradling Tony’s cheek and tilting his head up. Tony’s pulse skyrockets, hammering against his ribcage, mouth going dry as their eyes meet. The edge of Steve’s thumb brushes gently over the bandage on Tony’s nose, his eyes intense and unreadable.

“I hate seeing you hurt,” Steve murmurs.

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

His gaze drops to Tony’s mouth, and Tony lets out a tiny, involuntary noise—whether of fear or of want, he isn’t sure. Steve leans a fraction of an inch closer, and Tony’s lips part, his lids fluttering shut, and—

 _“Sir, Agent Romanoff is at the door. She is requesting to speak to Captain Rogers.”_ JARVIS sounds regretful, almost apologetic.

Tony’s eyes snap open just in time to see a blush rising on Steve’s pale cheeks, but it’s surprisingly faint, and he recovers with a decent amount of grace. “I should go,” he says, his hands falling away from Tony as he takes a step back.

“Right.” Tony swallows hard, wrapping his arms around himself self-consciously. He already misses the warmth of Steve’s hands on his skin. “Duty calls, and… everything. See ya, Cap.”

“Have a good night, Stark.” Steve gives him an appraising glance, then turns and exits the lab, perfectly composed and looking for all the world like he did not just almost kiss Tony Stark in his workshop.

A huff escapes Tony, and he flops down onto his chair, heart still thudding in his chest. He glances at the bottle of whiskey on his desk, sorely tempted, but he can still feel Steve’s gaze burning into him, and something prevents him from reaching for it.

When he leaves the workshop a few hours later to actually get some sleep for once, the bottle remains untouched.

* * *

**I.**

That almost-kiss lingers with Steve for weeks.

He thinks about it while he’s scrubbing dishes. He thinks about it while he’s out running. He even, sometimes, thinks about it during debriefs. And he thinks about it every damn time he looks at Tony. He’s mortified, unable to help wishing he had just said “screw it” and kissed Tony anyway when they’d been interrupted.

And Steve knows Tony is thinking about it. The man isn’t exactly subtle, after all. He stares at Steve just as much as he himself stares at Tony, now—more often than not, whenever they’re together, Tony’s lovely, dark eyes follow him, slightly narrowed, a line between his brows. Assessing. Calculating. It’s both unnerving and a little thrilling, knowing Tony is finally paying attention—at least visibly, anyway. It’s just a matter of time until one of them breaks.

Of course, nothing can ever be that simple with them.

It should be a standard battle. It isn’t as though they’ve never fought Doombots before, and it’s certainly never been a problem or anything more than a mild inconvenience, really. But Doom seems to have gotten smarter since the last time. One moment, Steve is taking down robots left and right, alternatively slamming his shield and his fists into metal while Iron Man flies somewhere overhead. The next, he hears Tony shout in what sounds like pain before the sound cuts out abruptly, and Steve looks up in horror to see the armor going rigid as something like electricity arcs over it, repulsor lights dimming and then winking out entirely. Tony plummets toward the ground, going down behind a building several yards away.

Steve is shocked into stillness for an instant. Then he snaps into action, knocking a Doombot aside with his shield and barking into his comms, “Iron Man’s down. I’m going after him; can everyone hold up all right?”

 _“Don’t worry about us, Captain,”_ Natasha answers coolly, hardly even sounding out of breath.

Hulk roars in the distance.

“Copy that.” Steve ducks to dodge a hit from a Doombot, taking it down with a swift kick, and makes his way as quickly as possible to where Tony went down. His heart is pounding, fear gripping his chest, constricting his lungs. _Tony, please don’t be dead._

He reaches Tony in almost record time, destroying robots with a vengeance until he can reach Iron Man’s still form. He doesn’t know if he’s ever cleared an area as quickly as he does then, and as soon as it’s safe, he tugs off his cowl and kneels beside Tony, carefully prying off the helmet of the armor.

When the helmet comes off, Tony blinks up at him, eyes huge and dark, a smear of blood on his forehead. “Cap?”

“Tony,” Steve blurts out, frustration and relief flooding him in waves. Tony’s eyes grow even wider, shock slackening his features, but Steve hardly notices. Tony’s name tastes so sweet on his tongue that he has to say it again. “ _Tony._ Thank God you’re all right.”

Stunned silence follows, in which Tony just stares up at Steve, a frankly indescribable expression on his face. Then his mouth twists a little, and he snaps, “As soon as I can get out of this goddamn suit, I’m going to kiss you, just so you’re—aha!”

The suit falls to pieces around Tony, and he sits up, takes Steve’s face in his hands, and presses their mouths together.

It wrenches a small, surprised noise out of Steve, but he returns the kiss eagerly. Tony’s lips are soft and hot, and he tastes like sweat, and Steve is—maybe a little too eager, because when his hands find Tony’s shoulders the smaller man groans and flinches a little, a sound that is distinctly pain, not pleasure.

Immediately, Steve pulls back, contrite. “Sorry, Tony, did I hurt you?” he asks anxiously.

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Tony demands, and proceeds to do just that, pulling Steve back in with a hand on the back of his neck and kissing him, really kissing him with tongue and teeth and everything, until they’re both gasping for breath.

Steve touches their foreheads together and cradles Tony’s face in his hands, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones, rubbing the delicate skin under his eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he murmurs, awed.

“Probably not as long as I have,” Tony says, his eyes bright and full of desperate wonder. “Cap—”

“Tony,” Steve says, just to watch Tony swallow his own words, just to watch his lashes flutter. He loves the way Tony’s name rolls off his tongue, hard at the start and soft on its way to the end.

Wetting his lips, Tony says, “Yeah?” He’s obviously aiming for flippant, casual, but it comes out quiet and enamored, a bit breathless.

Softly, Steve traces the curve of Tony’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Say my name,” he requests, voice a near-whisper, breath warm on Tony’s face.

Tony shudders. “ _Steve—_ ”

He doesn’t get to finish. Steve doesn’t let him, because he is kissing Tony again, passionate and deep even as his hands remain achingly tender on Tony’s face. Tony makes a sound, a tiny, choked-off whimper that punches heat right into Steve’s gut, and buries his hand in Steve’s hair, the other curling around his bicep.

 _“Cap?”_ Natasha’s voice crackles in Steve’s ear, and he jerks back, startled out of his wits. _“Steve, what’s your status? Is Tony okay?”_

Steve swallows hard, trying to get his ragged breathing under control before he answers. Meeting Tony’s confused, slightly dazed eyes, he touches his ear and says a bit roughly into the comms, “Tony is safe. He’s with me. Thank you for checking in, Widow.”

There’s a conspicuous pause, then Natasha lets out a faint sigh, one that closely resembles a chuckle. _“Well, it’s about time, you two,”_ she says, somehow managing to convey exasperation and warmth at the same time. _“Clint owes me twenty dollars. Don’t worry, we’re almost done here. We can handle the cleanup ourselves.”_

A horrible blush spreads across Steve’s face, his cheeks blazing with warmth. He sputters a little, but there’s no point in denying it—she clearly already knows—so he just huffs and disconnects to the sound of her soft laughter.

Tony is still giving him an odd look, hesitant and a bit hopeful. “Everything okay?”

Shaking his head, Steve sighs deeply. “Barton and Romanoff were, apparently, betting on how long it would take us to get together,” he says gravely, but the corner of his mouth is twitching.

“Really?” Tony looks genuinely curious. “How much were we going for?”

“ _Tony,_ ” Steve says, but if it comes out a lot less chastising and a lot fonder than he intends, he’s perfectly okay with that.

 _“Steve,”_ Tony mimics in a surprisingly good imitation of his tone, and his mouth is a soft curve that makes Steve’s heart pound a little harder when Tony shifts closer and places his hand on Steve’s chest. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad at me. Really makes me want to kiss you.”

“I’m not mad at you, and trust me, I want to kiss you too,” Steve says, grinning, before he sobers a bit. “But first I want you to tell me what fried your suit, and if it’s fixable.”

Tony grimaces. “EMP blast, and no, there’s not much I can do right now,” he says, looking distinctly unhappy about it. “Not until we get back to the Tower, anyway. What’s the status on the battle?”

“Natasha said the rest of the team can handle cleanup,” Steve says. “Apparently they’ve all but finished off the bots.”

A wicked gleam comes into Tony’s dark eyes, and he shifts, nudging Steve into a sitting position before swinging one leg over him and straddling his thighs. “That should give us plenty of time for some of that kissing I mentioned, right?” he purrs, winding his arms around Steve’s neck.

Steve nearly swallows his own tongue, hands automatically going to Tony’s hips. “Tony, I don’t think now is the best time,” he protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. “We should really wait until—”

“Fuck waiting,” Tony interrupts, and despite his vehement tone, open longing is writ upon his face. “I’ve waited long enough for this, Steve.”

Humming softly, Steve relaxes, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist. “You make a compelling argument, Tony,” he says, tipping his chin up to smile at Tony.

“Oh, yeah?” Tony’s grin is warm. “Why don’t you show me just how compelling it is, soldier?”

“I think I will,” Steve says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always appreciated!


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